


The Clothes You Once Wore

by MissDavis



Series: Could Be Fun [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Assassin Mary Morstan, Clothing Kink, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, amateur bondage, angsty porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary took a deep breath and conceded to herself that maybe she did want to put on the assassin outfit and tie him to the bed and have her way with him. Maybe Sherlock had just known it before she did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes You Once Wore

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on [tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com) wondered what Mary had done with her assassin outfit after she shot Sherlock. I don't think she got rid of it. I don't think Sherlock wanted her to.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this?" Mary worried the black tactical vest between her hands; she hadn't worn it since.... She wasn't even sure why she still had it; she'd just shoved it in the back of her wardrobe when she'd come home that night, before she rushed back out to see Sherlock in hospital, and then tried not to think about it for the next two years. 

"I'm sure," Sherlock said, and shimmied out of his trousers and pants. He'd already stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the chair next to their bed—next to John's and Mary's bed; it wasn't Sherlock's bed, even if it seemed as if he was in it as often as they were lately.

Mary glanced over at John, who, like her, was still fully dressed; unlike her, he had not been asked to change into the clothes he'd worn the night she had shot Sherlock. Now John took a half-step backward, away from her and Sherlock and the bed. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides and he didn't meet her eyes. She didn't blame him. This was definitely not her fantasy, either. She looked back at Sherlock. "I'm just not sure—"

"I am," he said, and reached down to give himself a few long, slow strokes. He sighed, the sound throaty and resonant, and let his eyes slip half-closed before repeating his instructions to Mary. "Put on the outfit. Do you still have the gun?"

"No," John said, which wasn't an answer but an imperative. "No gunplay."

Mary nodded and looked back and forth between the two men again. "I won't do that," she said.

"You two are no fun." Sherlock dropped onto the bed, stretching out on his back with his legs spread and his hand still on his cock.

"Really?" John said. He crossed his arms and glared. "Looks like you're having plenty of fun right now, winding us up."

"I'm winding myself up, obviously," Sherlock replied. "Are you at least willing to tie me up?"

"Ah...." That probably wasn't supposed to sound like a good idea, Mary knew; John was already upset enough about her wearing the clothes.

John stepped toward the bed, his hands spread as if he could placate Sherlock, convince him that this was ridiculous and they should all go back to just having their regular threesome without the too-close-to-home roleplaying aspect. "We don't do this sort of thing, Sherlock. We wouldn't even know how."

"I do not believe for a second that neither one of you has ever tied anyone up."

"Not in bed!" John protested.

"I mean, I've tied people to chairs before," Mary admitted. "But not like this." As soon as Sherlock had mentioned it, she'd begun picturing him tied to the bedposts and now had a very enthusiastic image stuck in her head. She still wasn't too keen on wearing the assassin gear again, but....

"Oh, good lord, it's the same principle." Sherlock let go of his cock and put both arms out to the side, brought them slowly up until he was positioned as if he were tied to the bedposts. _Or chained_ , a little voice in Mary's head whispered, and she bit back a whimper. She'd never really entertained a bondage fantasy before, but she was always willing to try new things.

"John, fetch some rope and tie me up," Sherlock demanded.

"No fucking way," John replied and stepped back from the bed again, arms crossed over his chest. 

Mary wondered if his answer would've been any different if Sherlock had asked nicely. Probably not, but Mary was rapidly reaching the point where she needed this to happen. Sherlock stretched out like that, all long, toned muscle, the puckered scar that she'd given him shiny against the pale skin below his nipple—okay, she probably wasn't supposed to find that part attractive. She took a deep breath and conceded to herself that maybe she did want to put on the assassin outfit and tie him to the bed and have her way with him. Maybe Sherlock had just known it before she did. "We can use something softer than rope, scarves or John's ties or something," she suggested. 

"Not my ties," John said. "Next thing you'll be wanting me to put on my army uniform."

"No. You keep wearing exactly what you're wearing, you're perfect." 

John stared at Sherlock and Mary watched him, seeing the anger and arousal and confusion all fight for supremacy in his expression; it was beautiful. A muscle in his jaw rippled and he turned away, striding across the room to yank open the door to Mary's wardrobe. He pawed through the belts and scarves she had hanging on the back of the door, then leaned back to hold out several items for her inspection. None of them were actually silk, which was a little disappointing, for some reason, though if she'd owned a silk scarf she probably wouldn't want to risk ruining it anyway. "The chiffon ones, I think," she said, and then grabbed the scarves she wanted when John gave her a blank stare.

Sherlock wriggled into the center of the mattress and spread his arms and legs out so they were close to the corners of the bed. "Come on, now, let's see your knot-tying skills." 

Mary swallowed and gave John one more glance; if he tried to talk her out of it she would let him. Instead he shrugged and sighed and took two of the scarves back from her. "I'll do his feet, you do his hands. Not too tight—sometimes they slip tighter when you don't expect them to."

"John!" Sherlock's voice was a register higher than normal, breathless with excitement. "You have done this before."

"No, I've treated people who have injured themselves doing this before," he said, and crossed the room to stand next to the foot of the bed. Mary could feel him watching her as she looped one of the scarves around the bedpost and then Sherlock's wrist. Apparently her technique met with his approval, because after a moment he turned his attention to his own efforts, neatly fastening Sherlock's ankles to the footboard.

Sherlock pulled against the scarves, testing them. "I could break free if I wanted to," he said.

"Good." Mary and John said it in unison, and then smiled at each other. Maybe everyone could end up enjoying this after all.

"All right, Mary, undress and then let me see you put the clothes on." Sherlock shifted on the bed so he was a bit higher on the pillows.

"I've never heard anyone order their would-be assassin around quite so much," John commented.

"Oh, please." Sherlock tried to wave his hand, but only had a few inches of freedom for his wrist. "If she'd wanted to kill me she would've done it when she came to see me in hospital while I was still on life-support. No one would've known."

Mary swallowed and looked down at the clothes she'd retrieved from where they'd been hidden behind her old maternity wear. She was already wearing the trousers; other than the decidedly unstylish cargo pockets they didn't feel much different than her normal clothes. But the stretchy black turtleneck was a far cry from her usual colorful blouses, and the vest held implications of a life she thought she'd finally escaped. She carefully set the clothes on the corner of the bed next to Sherlock's foot and started to unbutton her shirt.

Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow. "Is that the same bra you were wearing that night?"

"I don't know." Mary looked down at herself. "Probably not. I bought a bunch of new ones after the baby weaned."

"Fine," Sherlock dropped his head back onto the pillow. "I guess it doesn't matter since I didn't see it then anyway. It shouldn't alter my memory at all." 

"Why, Sherlock?" This was uncomfortable, cycling back and forth so quickly between arousal and remorse. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because I dream about you like this, Mary. Dressed all in black with the gun pointed at me. And then I wake up and can't stop thinking about it. There are very few women who've appeared in my dreams like that."

"Well, I'm flattered, but how about next time you try dreaming of me in that sheer negligee I wore last time you were here." She let the blouse fall from her shoulders and reached for the turtleneck. At least the room was cool. She slipped the shirt on over her head and tugged it across her stomach; she was heavier now, two years and a baby later, and it was tight, but it was supposed to be. The tactical vest needed to be adjusted a bit differently than when she'd last worn it, but it still fit. She'd forgotten how much it weighed, although once she had all the straps and zips fastened properly it was comfortable enough to wear. A little more familiar than she'd like, perhaps, but the way Sherlock was looking at her right now more than made up for any cognitive dissonance she was feeling.

She expected him to be straining against the restraints, but he wasn't moving at all, just watching her closely. Being the focus of that gaze alone was enough to ratchet up her desire; the fact that he was naked and bound on her bed with a prominent erection was only an enhancement. She tugged at the waistband of the trousers, enjoying the way her already-damp knickers shifted beneath them, and then looked down at her still-bare feet. "I don't know if I can fit into the boots," she said. She'd gone up half a size while she was pregnant and never went back down; her current shoe collection was only a quarter of what it had been before. 

Sherlock tipped his head back so he was staring at the ceiling. "Try. Please." 

The "please" was what got her. She loosened the laces on the boots and shoved her feet in, not bothering with socks or trying to retie the laces. They were small, but since she wasn't planning to leave the bedroom while wearing them they should be fine.

When she straightened up she found Sherlock sitting up halfway on the bed, as much as the scarves would allow. "Good," he proclaimed, and flopped onto his back again. "Just the hat and the gloves, then, if I recall."

"You want me to wear gloves while I—" She nodded at him, still unsure exactly what he had planned but assuming it would involve her at least touching him, since he was currently unable to do so himself.

"I never said you were going to touch me," he replied. "Put the gloves and the hat on and let me look at you, Mary."

"This is so messed up, Sherlock." She pulled the hat on over her head, tucking her hair up so none of it would show, and Sherlock made a deep, pleased humming sound that reverberated through her whole body. Fuck. It took all the concentration she could muster to get both gloves on, fingers in the correct positions. She stretched out her hands and raised her eyebrows at Sherlock, then put her hands on her hips, trying to act nonchalant. She could fool him sometimes when she really tried, obviously, though she wasn't sure if that skill extended into the bedroom. "What now?"

"Now kiss your husband," Sherlock said. 

Mary turned to John; there was a body's length of empty space between them. His shoulders were slumped, rumpling the fall of the cardigan he wore over his checked shirt. He lifted his eyes to hers but didn't raise his chin. "I don't—" he began, then shifted his gaze to Sherlock. "I don't want to see her this way."

Sherlock didn't reply. Mary lowered her head and took a deep breath and said, "It's okay, you don't have to." She pulled off the gloves, the right one first, then the left; it caught on her engagement ring for a moment and she had to look down to free it, peeling the leather away from the diamond John had given her. When she looked back up he had crossed the space between them. He grabbed the gloves from her and threw them back toward the wardrobe, then clamped his hands around her wrists, firm but not tight, the palms of his hands warm and rough against her skin.

Mary let him hold her in place for a moment, then drew her arms out to the side. John kept hold of her wrists and she stepped forward and tilted her head and kissed him. She was taller than him now, by a hair, with the boots on. 

A double heartbeat passed before John returned the kiss, mouth barely open to hers. He breathed against her lips and then pulled back, let his hands fall from shackling her wrists to resting lightly on her hips. He turned his head toward the bed. "Sherlock. This—" He lifted one hand to indicate Mary's outfit, sliding his fingers up and down the side of her body. "This isn't my fantasy. I can't even touch any skin."

"You can unzip her as necessary, but don't take anything off all the way," Sherlock replied.

John turned back to look at her and swallowed. He was staring at her chest, at the zips and pockets and pouches on the vest. Mary tipped her chin down until she could catch his eye, giving him one last unspoken chance to say no.

John set his hand on one of the straps that crossed below her left breast; it was designed to hold a knife but of course was empty at the moment. He ran his first finger over the rough fabric and said, "I just don't understand the point of this, or why you would like it." He was talking to Sherlock, obviously, though Mary felt a little blush of shame rise as she realized his words could apply to her, as well. 

Sherlock bucked his shoulders, pulling against the gauzy restraints. "The point," he said, voice even sharper than normal, "is for you to fuck your wife while I watch. I apologize if I didn't make that clear—I thought you might be able to deduce it. Unzip her trousers and kiss her again."

John's hands tightened, clenching at her hip and the strap on the vest. Mary blinked her eyes shut for a moment and blew out a breath, trying to tamp down the excitement that had been building since the three of them had stepped into the bedroom. "It's all right, John, we don't—"

"No." John pulled her forward, closing the few inches between their bodies. He rocked his hips into her and she sputtered a small gasp when his cock pressed against her thigh. She knew he wasn't aroused by the assassin outfit; it had been Sherlock's commands that had turned him on. She tensed for a split second and then relaxed into John's grasp. 

John snaked his left hand between them to work open first the flies on her trousers and then his own. He wrapped his right arm around her back and tipped his head for another kiss. This one lasted longer before he turned his head toward Sherlock to ask, "You want us standing up?"

"Yes, right there, where I can see you." 

Mary pulled back enough from John to push her trousers and knickers down and glanced over at Sherlock. He was as hard as she'd ever seen him, his cock glistening even though no one had touched it yet. As she watched he lifted his hips into the air and then brought them down with a grunt, though whether it was a grunt of frustration or satisfaction she couldn't tell. Well, he had made up the rules for this little game, so if he was frustrated by the fact that he was tied to the bed and unable to touch himself, he had no one to blame but himself.

Mary's trousers and pants were still caught around her shins, kept from sliding farther down by the bulky boots. She leaned into John, appreciating how he was strong enough to support her should she lose her balance, but also short enough that they could both enjoy themselves while remaining upright. She ran her hand down over his satiny boxers, the ones he always wore when he knew Sherlock would be joining them, until she reached the flap. His cock was already trying to jut through the opening; she flicked open the button and drew him out all the way.

She gave him a few firm strokes and then John bent his knees, lined himself up, straightened and was inside her. She exhaled sharply at the suddenness, but she was wet and open enough that there was no discomfort beyond the button of his boxers catching against her untrimmed hair. He dropped his hand to press against her and warmth blossomed up through her body. She ground down against him, rhythmless, and John reached his other hand around to squeeze her arse. Too hard, his grip was too hard but she thrust back into it and then forward again and John put his mouth against her neck and they began to rock in time together. 

Mary's back was to Sherlock, but she could hear him; he was much louder than John, who was only letting an occasional small gasp escape, damp breath thrumming against her skin. Sherlock moaned and muttered, then shouted both her and John's names. Not "Mary," though: "Mrs. Watson," he rumbled, and she whimper-cringed at the memory of when he'd said those words before. 

John froze for a moment, though he couldn't know, not that Sherlock had last called her that in the moment before she'd pulled the trigger. He moved the hand he'd been working between them away, folding her into an embrace far more tender than anything they'd done yet tonight.

She wrapped her arms around him in return and murmured into his ear, asking what he wanted. John didn't answer, just turned his head to plant a kiss below her eye and then stepped back. His cock was still hard, slick and dark red; he held it loosely in one hand. Mary felt hollow, needy with lust, the cool air of the room an unwelcome replacement for John's body.

John swallowed and straightened his shoulders. He should look ridiculous, she thought, near fully dressed and holding his thick cock in his hand, but he didn't. It was a perfect summary of him, she thought: the neat, bland clothing of the pleasant doctor and father that everyone knew not quite concealing the dark anger and steel he also contained.

His tongue darted out and for a moment she thought he might speak, but instead he stepped around her and strode to the bed. Mary pivoted to follow, stumbling. She caught herself on the footboard and struggled to kick off her shoes so she could free herself of the trousers and knickers, grateful that she hadn't bothered to lace up the boots.

John paused for a moment, peering down at Sherlock, then shook his head. "I don't know what you want," he said, then crawled up onto the bed to kneel next to him. Mary expected him to untie the scarves, but instead John took hold of his own cock again and began to pump, working his hand furiously while he watched but did not touch Sherlock's trapped body. John wasn't far from the edge of climax, she knew; she could predict it the moment before it happened, saw the muscles in his back and legs and shoulders all tense and then shudder. John shouted, head tipped forward and right fist clenched at his side. It might have been the start of Sherlock's name, but he never let it finish. The only sound that came out was "Shhhh," as if he wanted everything around him to fall into stillness while he emptied himself over Sherlock's stomach and chest, coating both his nipples and the scar just below. 

Mary stood where she was, transfixed, and then John collapsed sideways onto the bed next to Sherlock. He curled up into a ball and closed his eyes without saying a word. Sherlock glanced down at his own chest and then twisted his neck sideways to look at John. 

"You were supposed...supposed to come in her." He seemed shocked, as if he had never been covered with John's come before, as if being marked in such a way was somehow more traumatic than watching him fuck Mary while she was dressed as a killer. 

John didn't open his eyes, just shrugged one shoulder as he lay on his side, next to Sherlock but not quite touching. Sherlock tugged at the scarf that held his right arm; it was the first time Mary thought he might actually be trying to get free. She knew what the problem was, though he didn't manage to vocalize it. 

"I'll clean it up," she told him. She grabbed her discarded knickers from the floor and crossed around to the empty side of the bed, away from John. Sherlock stopped struggling, letting his arms fall slack. She sat next to him, feeling strangely out of place perched on the bed with no pants on but still wearing the turtleneck, vest and black hat. She rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and used her knickers to wipe off his stomach, then lowered her mouth to his chest to lick off the rest. 

John's semen was already cooling and thickening, but she swallowed it away anyway, the bitter taste familiar in her mouth. The last spot she licked clean was his scar; she ran her tongue in a soft circle over it and raised her eyes to meet John's over Sherlock's chest. He stared at her for a moment and then closed his eyes again, but didn't move away. "Finish up," he said softly.

Mary rose up onto her knees and reached to untie Sherlock's wrist. "No!" He flopped his hand in protest. "Just, come on—" He lifted his hips and nodded his head to indicate what he wanted. Next to him, John groaned in agreement and Mary sat down and squirmed against her own heel as a new surge of lust coursed through her. 

She straddled Sherlock's torso, sitting just out of reach of his straining cock. "You want me? Like this?" The turtleneck and vest were too heavy and tight for her to forget she was wearing them; she would gladly take them off at Sherlock's word but she knew he was too stubborn to change his mind.

"Now," Sherlock said, and pushed up against her, nearly toppling her forward. She caught herself with a hand to his chest and laughed, still conflicted but also delighted that Sherlock was back to demanding what he wanted instead of displaying the shocked and needy side he had exposed when John came.

Mary shifted atop him, feeling his cock brush between her legs but not quite ready to let him in. Instead she slipped the first two fingers of her left hand into his mouth and he gasped and groaned and sucked hard at them. Was he imagining it was John in his mouth? But he hadn't asked for that, had he? No, he wanted Mary, had very specifically demanded that she do exactly this to him, and if what he wanted was to see her as she'd looked the day she'd almost tried to kill him—well, she couldn't say she understood but maybe she owed it to him to do as he asked.

She pulled her hand out of his mouth and reached down and took hold of his cock, held it still so she could sink onto it. She was so wet and stretched after John that she could barely even feel Sherlock, so she squeezed herself as tight as she could around him and ground her hips down against his. He thrust back against her and sighed and the sound as much as the movement sent a wave of heat through her. "Oh God, Sherlock, I can't—"

"Don't," he replied. He tried to motion with his hands again, then told her what to do instead. "Lie down. I want to feel the buckles and zips against my skin."

Mary complied. She didn't know how it could feel good, and the hat must have scratched where it bumped against the side of his face, but Sherlock moaned and pressed his whole body up against her and she stopped worrying about it. She buried her face in his shoulder and let him take over; even tied to the bed he was still in charge, bringing her swiftly along with just the tilt of his hips and the sound of his voice as his own control unraveled. She thought he came first, when he suddenly stilled and hissed a long vowel, and then she was gone, helpless to stop herself from clenching around him, shaking and shuddering and then sobbing an apology for what she'd done long ago. 

"Mary." It was John who brought her back to herself, his fingers against her temple as he pulled the horrid hat from her head and tossed it away. "Shh, it's all right," he said, and she peeled herself off Sherlock while John sat up to finally untie the scarves. She rolled to the side and then slid off the bed, leaving a wet sticky trail behind her. She always made him wear a condom—what had she been thinking? She reached for a tissue to give herself a half-hearted wipe and tried to figure out when her next period was due. 

"Your breasts are already tender, you'll be fine," Sherlock said, and she glared at him, then broke into a laugh. She stood up and started to unbuckle the tactical vest, watching as John moved down the bed to free Sherlock's feet while Sherlock rubbed at the red marks that circled his wrists. 

"We can experiment more with the bondage, if you want," she said, and both men raised an eyebrow at her. "But I think these days are over." She tossed the vest toward the rubbish bin; it landed on the floor next to it instead. 

"That's fine," Sherlock said, and stretched out all his limbs, flexing and bending and nearly knocking John off the bed. "I've got all the data stored that I need." He yawned and rolled onto his side. "Next time one of you can decide what we do."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Revealing Clothes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600976) by [Violsva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva)




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